Straightforward Thoughts Are Overrated

I just realized something. All the lyrics I write that I end up liking are the ones that really make no immediate sense. That used to frustrate me because I thought "good songs" had lyrics in which people could connect and understand what was going inside my head. However...this had led to me writing countless lyrics over the years that I thought were "clear" and thus "right," which was true...but they sounded like the cheesiest crap I'd ever heard...which is why I don't like most of the stuff I've written.

But I finally get it. I can't write straightforward lyrics, because I don't have straightforward thoughts. And I'm ok with that. More so, I'm ok with other people not being ok with that. Part of what I've struggled with in songwriting (and life in general I guess) is the perception of what others will see of me. The more I've been able to let go of that, the more I've really felt my work reflect who I am. I still don't like most of it, but I'm starting to..bit by bit.

Instead of this straightforward message, I think my lyrics hover around ideas and emotions to situations sometimes tangible and sometimes not...and are really there to provoke questions rather than really answer them...or something.

So, sorry in advance for any confusion or frustration. Deal with it ;)

I want a banjo

The end.

Indigo Shells

A doorknob unravels,
conscious of lingering shelter.

Rattling and rusted
panels quiver from solemn sighs.

Metal velvet screeches its protest against
careless architecture. Hitchhiking across,

translatable astrology imparts stories
from freckles crumpled in

indigo shells
smuggled and swelling into a dusty radiance

at gundown.
Lay your sun down.

Twenty One

Bright eyes playfully duel existence as the bouquet
of faces coo thoughtfully over the shoulder of 1988.

Giggles. Laughter. A joyful holler.
Tick tock.

Morning dew slumps in the early afternoon,
dripping glistening thoughts into the ground

upon which tiny feet tromp.
Tick…tick…tick tocks the conductor’s

tongue. Everything is wrong. Surreptitious.
A mother’s smile. A proud father’s nod.

The haze reveals our rib cracking hearts
from delicate memories no longer attached.

The Accuser

**revision/different poem? I don't know

Oh one who sucks arid
the marrow of freedom out of
bones bought with the Blood.
Tell me, tell me.

The liar with the lair
in the deep of my soul.
Thieving and resurrecting.
Tell me, tell me.

Dripping with contempt
he is cloaked comfort.
Soothing syllables slump around shoulders
Tell me, tell me.

Ripples in self reflections
of this river I see.
Flowing, it rushes over
Tell me, tell me.

I know, I know
oh how I deserve
I know, I know
oh I’m not free, how can I be

Accuser of the Brethren
soft whispers splinter between
my folded faults
-- beauty’s hiding place.
I willingly embrace
the lion in the cave, the cave, the cave
oh and the desert,
soul thirsty,
the dry desert
of my own deception.
Tell me, tell me,
I will believe.

The Accuser of the Brethren

** In response to Aaron Porter's sermon I listened to this morning


The Accuser of the Brethren,
-- the liar with the lair
in the deep of my soul --
sucks arid the marrow of freedom
out of bones bought with
the Blood.

Thieving and resurrecting
my throbbing insecurities,
he subtly pulses them into reason.

The heavy battle within
slowly tumbles
and roars.

The clashing swells
and surrounds me
too fast, too thick
until I cannot see,
ache to feel,
will not hear
Him,

Because the Accuser has coated each strike
with the dripping contempt
of what my flesh knows I deserve
and so I believe
and so I am deceived
into the darkness
-- the eternal shadow that only grows
and never fades.

Unaware
I have stopped breathing,
my body cedes
to the unconscious assails
of nightmares and reality
that lock hands and
compose commands
I crumble to,
because my brittle frame
of mind has been depleted
of the Creator’s nutrients.

And so I have become
soul thirsty
in a dry desert of my own
deceptions.

To My Dear Friend

While my hair was still a jungle
overgrown with curly Qs of mischief,
my dimples were mere afterthoughts
sprinkled lightly in the summer sun.
I sat there squished,
and frantically licking my popsicle
before the thieving sun.
You sat beside me, eating yours.
You played with your toes and dripped grape
onto mine.
Each of us holding on with tiny fingers
to our quickly melting innocence.

At seven I floated on an elephant
riding away through the clouds.
And you on the dragon,
smoke billowing into mist.
Grass itching our backs you mumbled your six-year-old love.
I scratched my tickled elbow and sailed away
through the drifting sea on my fluffy pirate ship.

At thirteen I stopped soaring,
and landed on the heavy ground.
I learned to walk with lead in my feet
and always in my hands.
The world engulfed us,
two flightless birds dissolving into the infinite eye.

At nineteen we met each other
for the first time.
Youthful giggles replaced by seasoned wisdom.
Oh, but your boyish grin never walked away
and neither did our childhood.
What to do with nostalgia?
Oh, how it scolds us still.

The campfire burned to embers
and our fathers embraced as brothers
that day. Years passed
like before, bookmarked for another.
But life’s fists fell hard
across our youthful dreams,
and stole you from us.
But I still have your boyish grin in my pocket
and years of adventure skinned upon my knees.
When you come down to visit,
look for me in the clouds
searching for lost treasure,
searching for you.